176# | Little Smoke

Clocks are ticking,

so fast.

World is spinning like a whipping-top that gone mad,

on itself.

I am not alone, myself, who sees and observes this spectacular show.

Thankfully. We see it all, in slow motion. 

Seasons change, leaves die and grow again, they don't care.

Whole reality is submerged, in waters so murky,

that you can't find the surface.

You are losing your breath.

Everything slowly suffocates, under a kind nodding of everyones heads,

shaking hands, accepting the fate.

You can't hear me, and you're near,

but still it's the same -

few centimeters equals miles and lightyears away,

when beyond my reach.

And it's just a little smoke out the midnight window,

a silent night watch of the last real time of the day,

when the world is still and true under a cloudy sheet,

a tip of the cigarette, only listening to your tales,

is what holds you above the surface of the sea of sorrows,

that everyone fell for.

Not giving up, I still believe,

that your eyes are not closed forever.